


Crucify

by Lothiriel84



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-14 00:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: Got a kick for a dog beggin' for loveI gotta have my suffering so that I can have my cross





	Crucify

_Back off, No Legs_, he rebukes himself, in that tone of voice he generally reserves for his plants. _You don’t want to scare him away for good, now, do you?_

It’s a question of discipline, he reasons. Make sure you keep your feelings pruned and trimmed, and well out of the way. It’s less about _grow better_, and more like striving to cut a six-thousand-year-old monumental tree into a bonsai you could easily fit on your coffee table.

Except, well, if anyone’s the tree, that’s Aziraphale. And Crowley, Crowley’s the vine – its twisting stems twining up the tree trunk, desperate for their share of light and nutrients.

(There are no apples in this metaphor, but in his head, he always pictures his angel as a crab apple tree, its branches carrying leaf, fruit, and blossom, all at once.)

Humans have made ivy a symbol of a number of things across the centuries, such as love, friendship, eternal life; and quite memorably, in Ancient Rome it was believed that a wreath of ivy could prevent a person from becoming drunk. (Needlessly to say, he tested that theory on himself, and it didn’t work, not in the slightest.)

What ivy actually does, though, is to attach itself to other poor unsuspecting plants, weakening them, its roots firmly rooted into their barks, preventing light from penetrating leaves. Gardeners know there’s only one way to deal with it, and that’s killing the ivy first; once the blasted thing’s dead, you can take the stems off the tree without damaging it.

His point, his point is that he’s not prepared to give up on Aziraphale – not now, nor ever. Let the ivy crawl at the foot of the tree – and of course, of course he can almost _taste_ the bitter irony of it all – if you keep it sufficiently pruned, then it won’t get the chance to start climbing, and cause any real damage.

(And he’s not crying, of course he’s not – demons don’t cry, and besides, it won’t do to let his plants think he’s gone all Soft. _I’ll show you soft, you slackers_, he hisses between his teeth, and the plants do tremble obligingly, even though he gets a sense it’s mostly for show.)

He sinks to his knees, clutching a potted snake plant – which he doesn’t have the heart to admit is Trying Its Hardest, and still failing at it – watering it with his tears, and isn’t the wretched thing going to die after drinking demon tears anyway?

_Serves you right_, he tells the plant. (Himself.) _Your best just wasn’t good enough._ _(I only ever asked questions.)_

“My dear boy.” A pause, then soft hands covering his where they’re still clutching the flowerpot to his chest. “Whatever happened to you?”

(Just a figment of his imagination, that’s all. If he ignores it long enough, it will just go away.)

The plant pot is prised away from his fingers, and deposited somewhere safe; there are cool palms resting on either side of this face, and he’s burning, burning – those treacherous vines creeping towards the light already.

“Oh, Crowley.” Thumbs skim gently across his cheeks, the apple tree reaching down to the pathetic, lonely ivy, lifting it towards the sun.

(And it’s less about _on your belly you shall go_, and more like _I carried you on eagles’ wings_.)


End file.
